CHAPTER XXIV
Next morning, when they met at their eight o'clock breakfast, Arthurnoticed that Angela was distressed about something.
"There is bad news," she said, almost before he greeted her; "mycousin George is very ill with typhus fever."
"Indeed!" remarked Arthur, rather coolly.
"Well, I must say it does not appear to distress you very much."
"No, I can't say it does. To be honest, I detest your cousin, and Idon't care if he is ill or not; there."
As she appeared to have no reply ready, the subject then dropped.
After breakfast Angela proposed that they should walk--for the day wasagain fine--to the top of a hill about a mile away, whence a view ofthe surrounding country could be obtained. He consented, and on theway told her of his curious experiences with her father on theprevious night. She listened attentively, and, when he had finished,shook her head.
"There is," she said, "something about my father that separates himfrom everybody else. His life never comes out into the sunlight of thepassing day, it always gropes along in the shadow of some gloomy past.What the mystery is that envelops him I neither know nor care toinquire; but I am sure that there is one."
"How do you explain the shadows?"
"I believe your explanation is right; they are, under certainconditions of light, thrown by a tree that grows some distance off. Ihave seen something that looks like figures on that wall myself infull daylight. That he should interpret such a simple thing as he doesshows a curious state of mind."
"You do not think, then," said Arthur, in order to draw her out, "thatit is possible, after all, he was right, and that they were somethingfrom another place? The reality of his terror was almost enough tomake one believe in them, I can tell you."
"No, I do not," answered Angela, after a minute's thought. "I have nodoubt that the veil between ourselves and the unseen world is thinnerthan we think. I believe, too, that communication, and even warningssometimes, under favourable conditions, or when the veil is worn thinby trouble or prayer, can pass from the other world to ourselves. Butthe very fact of my father's terror proves to me that his shadows arenothing of the sort, for it is hardly possible that spirits can bepermitted to come to terrify us poor mortals; if they come at all, itis in love and gentleness, to comfort or to warn, and not to work uponour superstitions."
"You speak as though you knew all about it; you should join the newGhost Society," he answered, irreverently, sitting himself down on afallen tree, an example that she followed.
"I have thought about it sometimes, that is all, and, so far as I haveread, I think that my belief is a common one, and what the Bibleteaches us; but, if you will not think me foolish, I will tell yousomething that confirms me in it. You know that my mother died when Iwas born; well, it may seem strange to you, but I am convinced thatshe is sometimes very near me."
"Do you mean that you see or hear her?"
"No, I only feel her presence; more rarely now, I am sorry to say, asI grow older."
"How do you mean?"
"I can hardly explain what I mean, but sometimes--it may be at night,or when I am sitting alone in the daytime--a great calm comes upon me,and I am a changed woman. All my thoughts rise into a higher, purerair, and are, as it were, tinged with a reflected light; everythingearthly seems to pass away from me, and I feel as though fetters hadfallen from my soul, and I _know_ that I am near my mother. Theneverything passes, and I am left myself again."
"And what are the thoughts you have at these times?"
"Ah! I wish I could tell you; they pass away with her who broughtthem, leaving nothing but a vague after-glow in my mind like that inthe sky after the sun has set. But now look at the view; is it notbeautiful in the sunlight? All the world seems to be rejoicing."
Angela was right; the view was charming. Below lay the thatched roofsof the little village of Bratham, and to the right the waters of thelake shone like silver in the glancing sunlight, whilst the gables ofthe old house, peeping out from amongst the budding foliage, lookedvery picturesque. The spring had cast her green garment over the land;from every copse rang out the melody of birds, and the gentle breezewas heavy with the scent of the unnumbered violets that starred themossy carpet at their feet. In the fields where grew the wheat andclover, now springing into lusty life, the busy weeders were at work,and on the warm brown fallows the sower went forth to sow. From theearly pastures beneath, where purled a little brook, there came apleasant lowing of kine, well-contented with the new grass, and acheerful bleating of lambs, to whom as yet life was nothing but onelong skip. It was a charming scene, and its influence sank deep intothe gazers' hearts.
"It is depressing to think," said Arthur, rather sententiously, butreally chiefly with the object of getting at his companion's views,"that all this cannot last, but is, as it were, like ourselves, undersentence of death."
"It rose and fell and fleeted Upon earth's troubled sea, A wave that swells to vanish Into eternity. Oh! mystery and wonder Of wings that cannot fly, Of ears that cannot hearken, Of life that lives--to die!"
quoth Angela, by way of comment.
"Whose lines are those?" asked Arthur. "I don't know them."
"My own," she said, shyly; "that is, they are a translation of a verseof a Greek ode I wrote for Mr. Fraser. I will say you the original, ifyou like; I think it better than the translation, and I believe thatit is fair Greek."
"Thank you, thank you, Miss Blue-stocking; I am quite satisfied withyour English version. You positively alarm me, Angela. Most people arequite content if they can put a poem written in English into Greek;you reverse the process, and, having coolly given expression to yourthoughts in Greek, condescend to translate them into your nativetongue. I only wish you had been at Cambridge, or--what do they callthe place?--Girton. It would have been a joke to see you come outdouble-first."
"Ah!" she broke in, blushing, "you are like Mr. Fraser, you overratemy acquirements. I am sorry to say I am not the perfect scholar youthink me, and about most things I am shockingly ignorant. I shouldindeed be silly if, after ten years' patient work under such a scholaras Mr. Fraser, I did not know some classics and mathematics. Why, doyou know, for the last three years that we worked together, we used asa rule to carry on our ordinary conversations during work in Latin andGreek, month and month about, sometimes with the funniest results. Onenever knows how little one does know of a dead language till one triesto talk it. Just try to speak in Latin for the next five minutes, andyou will see."
"Thank you, I am not going to expose my ignorance for your amusement,Angela."
She laughed.
"No," she said, "it is you who wish to amuse yourself at my expense bytrying to make me believe that I am a great scholar. But what I wasgoing to say, before you attacked me about my fancied acquirements,was that, in my opinion, your remark about the whole world being undersentence of death, was rather a morbid one."
"Why? It is obviously true."
"Yes, in a sense; but to my mind this scene speaks more ofresurrection than of death. Look at the earth pushing up her flowers,and the dead trees breaking into beauty. There is no sign of deaththere, but rather of a renewed and glorified life."
"Yes, but there is still the awful _fact_ of death to face; Natureherself has been temporarily dead before she blooms into beauty; shedies every autumn, to rise again in the same form every spring. Buthow do we know in what form _we_ shall emerge from the chrysalis? Assoon as a man begins to think at all, he stands face to face with thishideous problem, to the solution of which he knows himself to bedrawing daily nearer. His position, I often think, is worse than thatof a criminal under sentence, because the criminal is only beingdeprived of the employment of a term, indefinite, indeed, butabsolutely limited; but man at large does not know of what he isdeprived, and what he must inhe
rit in the aeons that await him. It isthe uncertainty of death that is its most dreadful part, and, withthat hanging over our race, the wonder to me is not only that we, forthe most part, put the subject entirely out of mind, but that we canever think seriously of anything else."
"I remember," answered Angela, "once thinking very much in the sameway, and I went to Mr. Fraser for advice. 'The Bible,' he said, 'willsatisfy your doubts and fears, if only you will read it in a rightspirit.' And indeed, more or less, it did. I cannot, of course,venture to advise you, but I pass his advice on; it is that of a verygood man."
"Have you, then, no dread of death, or, rather, of what lies beyondit?"
She turned her eyes upon him with something of wonder in them.
"And why," she said, "should I, who am immortal, fear a change that Iknow has no power to harm me, that can, on the contrary, only bring menearer to the purpose of my being? Certainly I shrink from deathitself, as we all must, but of the dangers beyond I have no fear.Pleasant as this world is at times, there is something in us all thatstrives to rise above it, and, if I knew that I must die within thishour, I _believe_ that I could meet my fate without a qualm. I am surethat when our trembling hands have drawn the veil from Death, we shallfind His features, passionless indeed, but very beautiful."
Arthur looked at her with astonishment, wondering what manner of womanthis could be, who, in the first flush of youth and beauty, could facethe great unknown without a tremor. When he spoke again, it was withsomething of envious bitterness.
"Ah! it is very well for you, whose life has been so pure and freefrom evil, but it is different for me, with all my consciousness ofsins and imperfections. For me, and thousands like me, strive as wewill, immortality has terrors as well as hopes. It is, and always willbe, human to fear the future, for human nature never changes. You knowthe lines in 'Hamlet.' It is
"'that the dread of something after death,-- The undiscovered country from whose bourn No traveller returns,--puzzles the will And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of. Thus conscience does make cowards of us all.'
"They are true, and, while men last, they always will be true."
"Oh! Arthur," she answered, earnestly, and for the first timeaddressing him in conversation by his Christian name, "how limitedyour trust must be in the mercy of a Creator, whose mercy is as wideas the ocean, that you can talk like that! You speak of me, too, asbetter than yourself--how am I better? I have my bad thoughts and dobad things as much as you, and, though they may not be the same, I amsure they are quite as black as yours, since everybody must beresponsible according to their characters and temptations. I try,however, to trust in God to cover my sins, and believe that, if I domy best, He will forgive me, that is all. But I have no business topreach to you, who are older and wiser than I am."
"If," he broke in, laying his hand involuntarily upon her own, "youknew--although I have never spoken of them to any one before, andcould not speak of them to anybody but yourself--how these thingsweigh upon my mind, you would not say that, but would try to teach meyour faith."
"How can I teach you, Arthur, when I have so much to learn myself?"she answered, simply, and from that moment, though she did not know itas yet, she loved him.
This conversation--a very curious one, Arthur thought to himselfafterwards, for two young people on a spring morning--having come toan end, nothing more was said for some while, and they took their waydown the hill, varying the route in order to pass through the littlehamlet of Bratham. Under a chestnut-tree that stood upon the villagegreen, Arthur noticed, _not_ a village blacksmith, but a small crowd,mostly composed of children, gathered round somebody. On going to seewho it was, he discovered a battered-looking old man with anintellectual face, and the remnants of a gentlemanlike appearance,playing on the violin. A very few touches of his bow told Arthur, whoknew something of music, that he was in the presence of a performer ofno mean merit. Seeing the quality of his two auditors, and that theyappreciated his performance, the player changed his music, and from avillage jig passed to one of the more difficult opera airs, which heexecuted in brilliant fashion.
"Bravo!" cried Arthur, as the last notes thrilled and died away; "Isee you understand how to play the fiddle."
"Yes, sir, and so I should, for I have played first violin at HerMajesty's Opera before now. Name what you like, and I will play ityou. Or, if you like it better, you shall hear the water running in abrook, the wind passing through the trees, or the waves falling on thebeach. Only say the word."
Arthur thought for a moment.
"It is a beautiful day, let us have a contrast--give us the music of astorm."
The old man considered a while.
"I understand, but you set a difficult subject even for me," andtaking up his bow he made several attempts at beginning. "I can't doit," he said, "set something else."
"No, no, try again, that or nothing."
Again he started, and this time his genius took possession of him. Thenotes fell very softly at first, but with an ominous sound, then roseand wailed like the rising of the wind. Next the music came in gusts,the rain pattered, and the thunder roared, till at length the tempestseemed to spend its force and pass slowly away into the distance.
"There, sir, what do you say to that--have I fulfilled yourexpectations?"
"Write it down and it will be one of the finest pieces of violin musicin the country."
"Write it down. The divine 'afflatus' is not to be caged, sir, itcomes and goes. I could never write that music down."
Arthur felt in his pocket without answering, and found five shillings.
"If you will accept this?" he said.
"Thank you, sir, very much. I am gladder of five shillings now than Ionce was of as many pounds;" and he rose to go.
"A man of your talent should not be wandering about like this."
"I must earn a living somehow, for all Talleyrand's witticism to thecontrary," was the curious answer.
"Have you no friends?"
"No, sir, this is my only friend; all the rest have deserted me," andhe tapped his violin and was gone.
"Lord, sir," said a farmer, who was standing by, "he's gone to getdrunk; he is the biggest old drunkard in the countryside, and yet theydo say he was gentleman once, and the best fiddler in London; but hecan't be depended on, so no one will hire him now."
"How sad," said Angela, as they moved homewards.
"Yes, and what music that was; I never heard any with such imaginationbefore. You have a turn that way, Angela; you should try to put itinto words, it would make a poem."
"I complain like the old man, that you set a difficult subject," shesaid; "but I will try, if you will promise not to laugh at theresult."
"If you succeed on paper only half so well as he did on the violin,your verses will be worth listening to, and I certainly shall notlaugh."
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